


Favorite Flavors

by stephensmat



Category: Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Clueless Linguini, F/M, Gen, POV First Person, Post-Movie(s), Remy Cooking, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 06:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11753685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephensmat/pseuds/stephensmat
Summary: Set after the movie. Remy POV. The restaurant is going well, but Remy suddenly finds he has no new ideas and goes searching for inspiration.





	Favorite Flavors

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea who came up with the idea of a Rat as a Five Star Chef, but I love it.
> 
> Read and Review!

One disadvantage to having a rat as your head chef, you have to be careful who you hire. Hire the wrong person, the secret's out, and we're all unemployed again. So far, we hadn't hired anyone new. The trick is, we'd stash all the little staircases and walkways that let me run my kitchen, Colette would pose as the chef, and the new guy would work with her a while. Then I, would casually come out from some corner and start working on an out of the way dish, and wait for someone to notice me.

When the screaming faded, Linguini would quickly 'catch' me, and have me taken out of the kitchen, while Colette would taste the dish I had prepared, under the guise of making sure the food was still good. It would be of course. Then we'd see. If the new guy insisted we toss the dish anyway because a rat had gone near it, we'd bounce him. If he was willing to try it himself, and thought that it was incredible, we'd let him stay another week.

The second step would be to have me show up again, be 'captured' again, and have the dish I worked on praised lavishly by Anton Ego, who would enter the kitchen and introduce himself to the new employee. The third step would be to introduce them to me.

As yet, nobody had made it past the first step.

Colette and Linguini were natural caretakers. Every time somebody screamed the word 'Vermin' they would close ranks around me neatly, spend a day making it clear how highly they held me personally and life went on.

Still, we were an eatery in Paris, where the stakes on food were unthinkably high, and we had a queue of people that went out the door and down the street. That's an accomplishment, to say the least.

But now, I had a problem. Something far scarier than being lost in a sewer, something far worse than a health inspector.

I had writer's block.

I know that's not the term for it, but I didn't know the cook's equivalent for not knowing what to put out there next.

I didn't know what else to do. A part of me remembers when the waiter at Gusteau's came charging in, panicking because somebody had asked for something  _new_. At the time, I hadn't seen the worry. Something new? Sure.

Now I see the problem.

Coming up with new flavors had never been hard before, because what I could do was never allowed to settle. I had to be inventive because I so rarely found ingredients to work with, had to invent ways to cook it. After that, I had to learn whole new ways to prepare food, in a kitchen, with Linguini as my hands...

For once, in my entire career in any kitchen, I had time to run out of ideas.

 _Merde_ , what a horrifying thought.

The kids upstairs, newest members of the colony, my dad is talking their ears off, telling the story of how our family grew to include two humans, how we opened this place...

The thought of how it began takes my eyes to the sign outside.

When the place is open, there's a line going out that door and halfway down the block. There's a table reserved for Anton. He comes every night.

Ratatouille.

Colette wasn't wrong. It was a peasant dish.

I cooked it for Ego. It was my coming out, of sorts. No more hiding. Food is an art form, and like any art form, it has to come from the artist. Everything I had made till that point was at someone's request, or what other people wanted me to make for them. Ego dared me to cook what I would.

The night before, I never would have done it, but this was the night where Linguini had defended me at the cost of his own reputation. At the cost of the woman he loved. It was an act of honesty that I knew he never would have made for anyone else.

I owed it to him. Ratatouille was a peasant dish. A humble dish from humble beginnings. Like me. I made it for the harshest skeptic that the art world of any kind had seen. The man who ruined my idol, and sent the only friends i had into a spin.

And I beat him. With Ratatouille.

It was a fantastic night. If only it hadn't turned into the next morning.

* * *

The dinner rush ended, Anton finishes his desert and stops to chat with Linguini a bit, sends a wave at the kitchen...

But there was no... There was nothing exciting anymore. All this stuff I had made before.

Once the restaurant closed, Colette and Linguini start cleaning up. Until we hire someone we can trust, they have to do all the work themselves.

_Les rêves des amoureux sont comm' e le bon vin_  
_Ils donnent de la joie ou bien du chagrin_  
_Affaibli par la faim je suis malheureux_  
_Volant en chemin tout ce que je peux_  
_Car rien n'est gratuit dans la vie_

_L'espoir est un plat bien trop vite consommé_  
_A sauter les repas je suis habitué_  
_Un voleur solitaire est triste à nourrir_  
_A un jeu si amer je n'peux réussir_  
_Car rien n'est gratuit dans…_

Colette says that everything goes better with music. Gusteau said the same thing once, in an interview about how his kitchen was run. When Skinner took over, there was no music.

 _La vie… Jamais on ne me dira_  
_Que la course aux étoiles; ça n'est pas pour moi_  
_Laissez moi vous émerveiller et prendre mon en vol_  
_Nous allons en fin nous régaler_

Once the work was done, they closed up the store, and Colette drives them both home on her motor scooter. I'm rarely there at that point. I'm not much good at washing dishes without being on Linguini's head; so I usually beat them home.

'Home' for now, is Colette's apartment.

When Gusteau's had been closed by the health inspector, she had taken both of us in until they could get Linguini's one room loft space back. I had taken a spot on her windowsill, and then moved to the bookshelf. Gusteau's book had centre stage in the shelf. There were photos in the shelves too. Culinary schools, one or two with her family...

 _La fête va enfin commencer_  
_Sortez les bouteilles; finis les ennuis_  
_Je dresse la table, de ma nouvelle vie_  
_Je suis heureux à l'idée de ce nouveau destin_  
_Une vie à me cacher et puis libre enfin_  
_Le festin est sur mon chemin_

_Une vie à me cacher et puis libre enfin_  
_Le festin est sur mon chemin_

Two photos had a place of prominence and both of them were of her with Gusteau himself. One was a shot of her in uniform, in the kitchen, posing together for the camera. His arm was around her like a proud father. The other was a candid shot, her in plainclothes, working diligently over a pot, stirring something, and he, in his Chef uniform standing behind her, looking over her shoulder, guiding her hand gently with hers...

I saw that, and knew why she had come back. She loved Gusteau. He had taken a chance on her, letting a woman into the domain of Old French Men, and she had come out victorious. She in turn would give me the chance too, especially since she knew I could cook.

Colette's home was not expensive. It had about as many furnishings as Linguini's place, it just had more room to spread out in. Her kitchen was surprisingly small, but it had the lived in feeling.

Linguini had thought that she was staying out of the living room because he was essentially living in it. But take it from the nose that knows, Colette spent very little time in her living room. She lived in her kitchen.

Her kitchen had a bookshelf, the small television was on top of the refrigerator, the radio on top of the microwave, and the counter-top was high enough that two stool chairs slid under it. Colette ate her meals there, sitting at the counter-top with her meal, curled up with a book.

I felt for her. She looked content to be alone. Something impossible back in the colony. Only one rat? Unheard of. A solitary life? Ridiculous.

Linguini's first night here had been awkward. Fortunately, it was near enough after their fight over me that she had no problems telling him to sleep on the couch.

Linguini changes out of his work clothes and manages to catch his sleeve on something, making an impromptu straight jacket. Colette is already changed, out of her room and meets him in the hallway, so patiently pulls at his caught sleeve until he spins around, free of himself

The move leaves them nose to nose. A position that makes Colette smile and Linguini swallow. Her hands come up to hold his forearms gently. Linguini still gets nervous when she touches him like this.

She smirks and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Uh... okay, I'm going to uh... sit." he backs into the living room. "Enjoy… um, showering."

"Watch out for the coffee table." Colette calls easily over her shoulder as she heads down the hall.

"I w-ACK!"

Linguini managed to extricate himself from his girlfriend's coffee table, and make it two whole steps before he tripped on something else. I have no idea how that man got so good at roller skating, but my dad has this theory that he always seems to move as though he's trying to balance on ice. Most people on wheels have trouble staying upright. Maybe in Linguini's case two negatives cancel each other out.

The restaurants in Paris never close until at least 10pm. It takes another hour or two to clean up, close up and get home, but Linguini is always out like a light once we get there. Colette takes a while to decompress.

* * *

Colette came out of the bathroom to the sound of the phone ringing. She answers it. " _Mon Dieu_ , what could you possibly want at this time of the night?!" She listened and rubbed her tired eyes. "I'll get him."

There is only one 'him' it could possibly be, so I go with her to see what's happening.

Linguini is snoring away like a chainsaw on the couch. The man manages to sprawl into the most impossible positions while he sleeps. Colette shakes him. He doesn't wake up. Colette notices me and gestures. I nod and jump up into Linguini's hair, pulling him upright, still snoring, and he reaches out a hand under my direction toward the phone.

Colette takes in the sight, and I see a memory play out behind her eyes, followed by a swift revelation.  _Uh oh._

Colette covers the phone and glares at me. " _Mon_  Chef, we will speak soon on this. Linguini, Wake UP!"

He snorts awake, the phone in his hand, and speaks reflexively. "Hello?"

Colette snatches me straight off his scalp and takes me to the kitchen. "That day, when he tried to tell me about you. He wasn't even  _awake_  was he?!"

I shrink.

"When he kissed me. That was all because of  _you_  wasn't it!?"

I shake my head. A calculated lie. It was not  _all_  because of me. He would have planted that kiss on her the day they met if he'd only had the nerve.

" _Mon Dieu!_  I almost  _Pepper sprayed_  him!" Colette hisses. "The only reason I didn't was because... was because I knew he was in lo..." She trailed off suddenly. Then her glare lightens. Then she starts to smile. Then she returns her gaze to me. "We never had this conversation." She snarls suddenly.

I nod emphatically.

Linguini comes in, the phone disconnected. "Well little Chef, looks like we have somewhere to go."

Colette looks up. "Go?"

"Yeah, you get your couch back. The loft space where I used to live is still available, and the landlord figured a tiny rent was still worth more than using it for an attic."

"Oh." Colette said. Nothing else. Just the one syllable.

Linguini looks down. "Um, thank you for putting up with me for so long. It was really nice to have... to uh... I don't have much so I should be able to get out of your way by tomorrow. The weekend if things stay busy at the restaurant."

"If... if you wanted to stay with me a little longer..." Colette said slowly. "Maybe a lot longer…"

Linguini blinks. "Stay with you? Stay here?"

Colette has never made an offer like this before. I'm looking around her house and seeing a whole lot of nothing in the way of things ex-boyfriends may have left around. If there's one thing a rat knows, it's junk. The old lady with the Cooking Channel obsession had more mementos from paramours than Colette. I think that's why she suddenly seems unsure.

"Well... yeah." She volunteers finally.

"But you don't have a guest room." Linguini says. "I can't stay on your couch forever."

"I agree." Colette smiles primly, expecting him to get the implication. "I've got the room, and if Little Chef is to be staying with you, then you should probably have a place with a decent kitchen..."

"If you want Little Chef to stay with you, I can't stop you." Linguini commented... moped really. "You don't have to ask me..."

Colette goes still.  _Warning. Warning. Linguini, you're in danger._

"The  **rat**?" She chokes out finally. "You think I'm offering to let you live with me so I can keep close to the  **rat**?"

I would be offended, but at this exact moment I'm too busy worrying for the well-being of my friend.

"He's free to stay with who he likes... and you actually have more in common with him than I do..."  _Danger, Linguini!_ _Great Danger_ _!_

Linguini doesn't follow. Colette went to war every day with the men in her kitchen. Partly to prove herself, and partly because she was a woman. Mostly the latter.

Linguini doesn't get it. She didn't come back because she loved him. She came back because she believed Gusteau when he said anyone could cook.

She loved him because he saw her. Because he thought she was better than anyone else in the kitchen. Because he respected her. The only times the two of them came to blows, was when she thought he was going around her, pushing her aside... Okay, so maybe that was my fault!

Despite his comment that I have more in common with her, I actually have more affinity for him. We're the same. Nobody ever expected anything from either of us, or worse, expected so much less than we were capable of, and got angry when we went further. In me this inspired rage. In Linguini, shyness. Even when he declared himself partners with a rat, he could only see his contribution as 'appearing human'.

I leave my thoughts and see that Colette and Linguini were now officially having one of their fights. Colette was stone still, arms folded with her 'Keep your station clear or I will kill you' face on. Linguini was swinging his arms around in frustration, all arms and legs waving as he tried to get a coherent sentence out around this woman he loved.

I recognized their fighting for what it was. It was like my first trip through Paris. The man was at the business end of his girlfriends' gun one second, literally kissing her the next. High passion can go into cooking, into fighting, or into romance with equal fire.

Ahh, Paris.

I tuned the argument out and went exploring. I needed inspiration.

* * *

Sometimes just smelling a spice is enough to give me an idea, and Colette had lots of spices. In fact she had a small garden in the flower-box outside her window ledge. it was filled with neat rows of herbs. I never picked Colette for a green thumb. She lives in an apartment after all.

Humans like to think there's nowhere for a rat to live in their house, but the fact is we have the run of the world. In Colette's house I picked up about a thousand scents. It almost turned my nose inside out a first, and finally I realized where it all came from. Colette had brought her work home with her. A restaurant never uses up exactly what it buys, and can't have ingredients a day out of date. The staff at Gusteau's took lots of stuff home with them, usually the least enjoyed dish of the night.

But tonight, the herb garden gives me nothing. Nothing new anyway.

One thing that the herb garden always reminded me of is when I had to swipe bits and pieces of food to cook. I had to improvise a lot. I didn't realize it at the time, but those were my first lessons in cooking.

The old woman who the colony lived with once, she had a channel that picked up Julia Child from America. Her book was about making French food with American ingredients. I always liked that, because it meant that good food could be improvised. If great food could be improvised, there was hope for me. At Gusteau's, that was a no-no. The French only eat French Food.

My ears pick up music, filtering over the streets in the dead of night, and I follow it. Rat ears are not quite as good as rat noses, but I can follow the tune to a townhouse down the street from Colette's.

The song is familiar, but from what i can see, it looks like someone is doing a cover of a song. I don't recognize her, so she must be an amateur. I look down into the room from the light fixture, and see her writing down the words... in English.

Ridiculous of course. Translating French into English is like converting poetry into graffiti. Maybe the words are the same, but there's no comparison  _really_!

**Remy! SHAME!**

_Ack!_  My inner Gusteau had been silent for weeks. "What?" I demanded of him. "You're my imaginary mentor, not a DJ!"

**When you first came to my restaurant, you looked at everyone, and the one person you ignored was Linguini. Because he wasn't a 'proper chef'. Because he wasn't 'important'.**

"He  _wasn't_  a chef! I know he's your son, and I owe him everything, but what does any of this have to do with..."

**Don't you recognize the song?**

I tune my ears back to the studio, and to my surprise, it's actually one of my favorites. I was listening to this exact song an hour or two ago. The translation threw me. It's the same song that was playing when Linguini took over Gusteau's restaurant. Colette had dug out Gusteau's old record player and played it. The look on the staff's faces when they heard this song... It was like they were coming home. Skinner had been the authority, but the staff missed their former boss far too much to like Skinner and what he was doing with the Gusteau name.

 _Dreams are to lovers as wine is to friends_  
_Carried through lifetimes, and spilled now and then_  
_I am driven by hunger, so saddened to be_  
_Thieving in darkness; I know you're not pleased_  
_But nothing worth eating is free_

Colette had played that song at her place once or twice too. I always liked to have it playing when I cook, because it seems written for me. I think Colette thought the same about herself. Colette had to do twice the work to get half the credit, and knew that there would always be a wall between her and the recognition she deserved because of what she was.

It's a situation I can relate to.

I actually have more in common with them than they know. Both of them know what it's like to be me.

Colette had passion in her. She was fearless. I approved of her. Who better a match for Gusteau's son?

 _My hope is a banquet impatiently downed_  
_Impossibly full, now I'll probably drown_  
_Many thieves' lives are lonely with one mouth to feed_  
_If giving means taking, I'll never succeed_  
_For nothing worth stealing is…_

The lyrics are sweet, but it's not French. It lacks the cultured touch that comes from...

 **Maybe it's just different! That's no crime you know.**  Gusteau snaps at me.  **Converting something you do not fully understand into something you can enjoy is no weakness, it's an experiment. Chef's must always experiment, Remy!**

I lose myself in the song for a moment, and suddenly notice that my paw is tapping in time, my every limb is swaying to the tune, the way it rises and falls.

The way good food makes me feel!

**Music you can taste. Flavor you can see. The first lessons I taught you Remy!**

"I'll remember." I promise Chef Gusteau aloud.

The thing about high-class dining is that it's an educated palette. But a lot of people... can't tell the difference between tinned peaches and fresh picked. Most because they never try it, or don't have the money, or the time. Some because they simply don't care. People like that remind me of my father. Food is fuel. A year ago you could feed my brother shoelaces and tell him it was spaghetti. He couldn't tell.

I felt better about being a chef when my brother started noticing flavors at last than I did when Linguini suddenly had a penthouse.

And the maestro, Gusteau himself. He knew better than anyone. He was the one who taught me, though we had never met. Music you can taste. Flavor you can see.

I always heard the music when I ate. Fruity flavors always made me think of jazz music. Sharper tastes made me think of rhythm. Subtle flavors were like the slow background music you hear swaying in romantic movies.

I grinned. I had a new idea.

 _Free at last; won't be undersold_  
_Surviving isn't living; won't eat what I'm told_  
_Let me free, I'll astonish you; I'm planning to fly_  
_I won't let this party just pass me by_

I made my way back to the apartment. I head straight into the kitchen and start cooking.

* * *

Cooking is actually a fairly disgusting process until you're finished. Half prepared meals are like garbage, only on counters instead of in gutters.

I leave the chocolate sauce to sit for a while, and go on check on my two humans. I have to go through the wall to get to them both, but it's not like that's new. Colette still has a mousetrap behind her fridge. I must remember to do something about that.

The fight is apparently over. Colette is in her room, stewing. It's late and she should be asleep but her frame screams tension and frustration. Her eyes are red and she's staring hard out the window. If that glare gets any stronger the wall may catch fire.

Linguini is moping in the living room, collapsed in a chair that he has moved into the corner. They don't know it, but both of them are staring up at the moon.

History suggests that this will continue for the rest of the night, and become awkward in the morning. They take so much looking after.

I push my way out of the electrical socket in the wall, scramble my way up to the couch and clamber up into Linguini's hair, taking the reigns before he's fully aware that I'm there.

He stands up as I tell him to, and he starts moaning. "I screwed it all up Little Chef. She's the best thing in the whole world and I made her mad because she was trying to be nice to me. How could I be so stupid?"

Its times like this that I wish humans could understand my language like I could understand theirs. Everything I tell Linguini has to be through his own body or the food we prepare.

 _Poire belle Hélène_  always takes a while to get right, so when it's ready, I prepare two servings and then I open some wine, pour two glasses.

"Two glasses?" He demands. "Little Chef, she's not going to-HEY!"

We're already to her room, and I manipulate Linguini neatly to knock on the door. I can hear her shuffling around, coming closer, and in the precise moment before the door opens, I jump off Linguini's hair and run for it.

 _"Little Chef!"_  Linguini hisses, frozen in panic, as her door suddenly opens. "Uh..."

Colette seems shy too. She sniffs the air and smiles. "I think Little Chef is experimenting again."

"Uh...Yeah. Something with a lot of pears and chocolate in it."

Colette sniffs again. " _Poire belle Hélène"_ She breathes. That girl would make a fine poison checker rat.

Linguini looks up hopefully. "Would you... like some?"

 _The banquet is now underway, so…_  
_Bring out the bottles; a new tale has spun_  
_In clearing this table, my new life's begun_

* * *

Shakespeare wrote that 'Journeys end in lovers meeting'.

Gusteau wrote that 'Lovers find each other over good food.' And 'breaking bread can end arguments.'

He's right. Bad news improves on good food. Sadness lightens on good food. Friends are made closer by good food. From my perch, out of sight (A talent that rats have raised to an art form) I watch them discreetly. They always bond over food. Colette talks about Linguini's father, and he's eager to learn about the man he never met. Even more so because it's her telling him. They talk about he food too. Colette can hear the same music when she eats, and she describes it to Linguini. He's more willing to learn on this subject than my brother, so there's something of an education going on over the past few weeks.

Things are a little strained because of the argument this time, but they are still talking as the portions are slowly devoured.

"This is good." Colette admits. "But it's not the usual recipe. He's changed something."

"He always does."

"Did you take notes?"

"Always, but he didn't need me for all of it."

Colette nods. She eats the way Ego does, eating small bites, dissecting every flavor. Linguini is transfixed by her mouth as she draws the small fork out from between her lips.

Once the meal is finished, the two of them suddenly realize that they are alone at a table, the fight over, leaving them only to settle things. Colette refills their wine glasses.

"I've never..." Colette starts. Then stops. "I've never had anyone in my life like you before."

"I know."

"The last one, who thought I was special, in any way, was..."

"Gusteau." Linguini says with her. "Well, he's my father; so obviously, I don't like to put too much thought into your relationsh-"

Colette swats him. "Hey!" But she smirks a little and I know they're going to be okay.

"Forgive me?"

"For being you?" She asks. "Well, it's difficult, but somehow I'll find it in me."

"Oh. Good."

She slides her stool over and hugs him. "I was teasing you."

"I knew that." He brings his hands up and hugs her back tightly. I leave them to that for a while to go and look over Colette's herb garden for more improvements. They haven't really moved when I come in to check on them. Linguini has relaxed considerably, stroking her hair lightly. Colette has this little smile on her face. "I hate fighting with you."

Linguini tries to figure out what to say. "Me too. But I like spending time with you."

"Me too." Colette smiles gently. "This was nice."

"Yeah." Linguini agrees. "I've never had  _Poire belle Hélène_  before." I felt like smacking him. But she isn't upset at the misunderstanding.

 _I am nervous, excited; just read the marquee!_  
_A lifetime of hiding; I'm suddenly free!_  
_My dinner is waiting for me_

Colette looks at him, still a little sad. "How could you think I would keep you in my home just to stay close to Mon Chef?"

Linguini looks down. "Because I'm stupid and you two actually have more in common than either of you with me…"

"One thing. We have one thing!" Colette takes a breath. "I didn't want you because you I thought you could cook."

Linguini looks up, suddenly  _very_  hopeful. "Really?"

Colette smiled. "I am surrounded by chefs. Cooking brought you to me. It's not what brought me to you."

Linguini looks down. "It's just... cooking is what my father did, and I never knew him. It's what you do, and what little Chef does, and everybody loved it when they thought it was me and I wanted... I wanted to... I wanted you to think that I... GAH! Why-is-it-so-hard-to-talk-to-you?!" He grits his teeth and spits it out in a rush. "You're really good at it and I wanted you to respect me like I respected you."

Colette is struck by this. Right between the eyes in fact. I don't know how he does it, but my boy Linguini manages to stumble his way into saying the right thing so often.

"I never did get a straight answer about your staying here." She says quietly.

"Well, I have… I would always prefer to-"

She swiftly reaches up, putting a finger over his lips. "Would you  _like_  to stay here with me?"

Linguini gulps. "Y-yes." He says finally.

"My apartment... It's got to be better than the place you were before Gusteau's." She drawls out.

"So much better. It has you."

Colette blushes.

Linguini takes that in and feels like he's done something wrong. "Other stuff too! It's got washing machines too! Not that washing machines are more import-"

Colette saves him from himself by leaning over and kissing him. He wastes no time losing himself in her kiss. I think that she is his favorite flavor. Everyone has one.

_A lifetime of hiding; I'm suddenly free!  
My dinner is waiting for me_


End file.
